


Werewolf Daycare

by dinolaur



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, M/M, pre slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinolaur/pseuds/dinolaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, Stiles thought someday he'd be all right with being responsible for some kids. But not when he's seventeen. And not when those kids are actually five werewolves and a hunter who are all inexplicably toddlers again. Freaking witches, man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Werewolf Daycare

Stiles and Lydia get the text not too long after nightfall. It’s much sooner than the recon mission—Stiles wasn’t allowed to go because of the lack of stealth thing, and Lydia refused to stomp around the wet forest—the rest of the pack went on should have been over. That, in and of itself, is cause for alarm. But then the message from Derek just says, _“My house. Now.”_

They abandon the movie and popcorn and run out to Stiles’s Jeep. He’s worried, so he immediately starts rambling about what might be the problem and oh God, what if someone is hurt. It’s less than a minute before Lydia slaps a hand over his mouth—if it had been Scott or Allison, he’d have licked the palm, but she’d punch him for it, moving car or not—and tells him that speculating without more information is just going to work him up to a useless state.

Stiles hears the unspoken “I hate seeing your panic attacks. I can’t handle that.” That actually calms him down more than anything.

Stiles might drive a little faster than is recommended out to the house in the woods. It’s been renovated by the pack on weekends, and they finally finished a couple of months ago. It’s no longer a depressing and burned out shell, but something nice and livable, and it doesn’t make Stiles want to drown in the tears of orphans every time he sees it.

He parks the Jeep messily, and they run inside, only to come to a screeching and almost painful halt when they see the state of the rest of the pack.

They are significantly smaller than Stiles remembers them being when they left his house a couple of hours ago.

But no, literally, all of the pack, minus Derek—who is standing there looking like someone is digging into the fleshy part of his thigh with a silver knife—are child sized. They are stupidly cute and adorable, but they are child sized, and that is concerning.

“Um, what,” Stiles asks smartly.

Several of the little heads turn to him, and Stiles is especially floored to see Scott. It’s a face he remembers from back in kindergarten and from pictures around his and the McCall houses, but Holy Christ, were they really that tiny back then?

Scott marches up to Stiles, tripping a bit over his too large t-shirt. “Stiles,” he whines, and Stiles tries very, very hard not to coo, because Scott as he should be already looks like a puppy, so Scott as a five year old, yeah, there’s no one who can resist that. “Stiles, look what happened to me!”

“To all of us, you dumbass,” Jackson snaps. He tries to fold his arms angrily, but they get tangled in the too long sleeves. And then there’s his tiny little scowl, and God, this is all priceless.

“Okay, so what happened,” Lydia asks.

Derek all but spits out the word, “Witches.”

“Witches,” Stiles echoes. “Witches caught you spying on them and turned the pack into babies?”

“We’re not babies,” Jackson pipes.

“You look like a six year old,” Allison says, standing at the exact same height as him. “Close enough.”

“Not to mention Isaac,” Boyd says from where he’s hanging over the back of the couch. And Stiles finally notices the other two sitting there. There’s a little blond girl who is so obviously Erica, but she’s even smaller than Scott. Stiles isn’t sure, but he’d say something like two or three. And then, there’s something even more disturbing—and freaking adorable—in the form of an infant sound asleep on the couch next to her. An infant with a mess of blond curls.

Oh God, Isaac is literally a baby. He is literally not even a year old.

“Okay, seriously, why are they kids,” Stiles says, unable to stop himself from walking over to the couch and hovering over the smallest two. Erica grins up at him around the hand she has shoved into her mouth.

Derek’s expression is pained as he explains, “The witches saw us, there was some back and forth of a more immature nature.” He shoots a glare down at Jackson and Scott, who slump and look ashamed. “Then this happened, and one of the witches said something about them acting their ages.”

Allison huffs. “I would like to point out that I have been unjustifiably—“ She stumbles a bit over the word, and that’s just too much. “—punished here.”

“Well,” Stiles says slowly. “It could have been worse, I guess.” Derek makes a face that clearly says he does not see how.

“So what are we supposed to do,” Boyd asks. “Because I already did puberty once, and I’m not really looking forward to having to grow into it again.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, taking in a deep breath. “Okay. Obviously, we’re going to have to take care of them for the time being.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Jackson snaps.

“Yeah, you going to just walk home and tell your parents about this,” Stiles asks, and that shuts him up. “Anyway, we’re going to have to take care of them, make excuses to parents as to why they’re missing. Call up Deaton to see if he’s got anything to reverse this. Oh, call Chris Argent too.”

Derek stiffens at that. They have a decent enough truce going with the Argents now, after all the mess with the kanima and Gerard back in sophomore year. There’s still bad blood there, prejudices and betrayals that will never go away, but the Argents aren’t actively hunting the pack anymore, and Allison is allowed to date Scott. Stiles is content to call that a win.

“We have to call Argent,” he says. “He can help with any excuses we might need, and plus, I really think he’d want to know that he’s got a tiny daughter again.” Allison huffs.

“They’re going to need clothes,” Lydia says, eyeing the children critically. They’re all in whatever shirts they were wearing when they left the house, the only clothes that managed to stay on them after shrinking down.

“Okay, to do list,” Stiles says. “We call Deaton and Argent. We head to the Wal-Mart and get some kids clothes. We send out various summer camp excuses. Lydia, can you cover the clothes?”

“You make me sad that you said Wal-Mart, but yeah,” she says, patting her purse on her hip.

“Okay, let’s go,” Stiles says, fishing out his keys.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Derek says in his Me-Heap-Big-Alpha voice.

“Things to do, Derek,” Stiles says with a longsuffering sigh.

“No,” he says firmly. “You can’t leave them here.”

“They have to stay somewhere,” Stiles says patiently.

“Your house.”

“No.”

“Your dad isn’t there,” Derek argues.

True, his dad is out of town at a conference and will be gone for a good few weeks. But yeah, still not happening. “They’re already here,” Stiles says. “I don’t have room or proper seating for them in the Jeep. Also, you have more bedrooms here.”

Derek just glares at him, and Stiles glares back for a moment before he looks a little harder, and there under all the irritation and Alpha stoicism, he see it. Derek has no idea what to do with children, and he’s scared of them. Or not of them. But being responsible for them.

He sighs. “Okay. Fine. They’re staying here, but Lydia, do you think you can watch them while we go get stuff?”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Lydia says plainly.

“Why not?”

“I don’t do children,” Lydia says. “I will help you clothe them. I will help you come up with lists of responsibilities and necessities. I will help run interference. I will help with any research to get them back to normal. But I’m not touching them.”

“You’ve really got those maternal instincts down to a science, haven’t you,” he asks dryly.

“Pay me compliments, or you don’t get to have access to my credit cards,” she returns in a sing-song voice.

“You are too beautiful for words and have evolved beyond the need for instincts. Because of brain power,” he says immediately.

“Not your most eloquent,” Lydia says. “But it’ll do.” She pops up onto her toes and kisses his cheek. She holds out a hand, and with a sigh, he drops the keys into her palm. “Come on, Daddy Wolf, let’s go shopping.” Derek actually spends a few seconds looking between the expectant Lydia and the group of kids, trying to decide which is the more uncomfortable endeavor. Then he sighs and trudges after Lydia out the door.

Stiles laughs. He’d pay good money to see Lydia dragging Derek around a Target.

When the sounds of his Jeep have disappeared, Stiles looks around to all the small faces staring up at him. With a sigh, he reaches into his pocket to fish out his phone. It’s probably going to be a really long night.

``

It is indeed a very long night. Deaton promises to go through his books and see if he can’t drag up anything about form changing spells. He also promises to email Stiles some basic information on witches. Chris Argent shows up a bit later, his expression partly that mix of parental fury and worry—Stiles see that look too often on his dad—but also a bit awe filled as he takes in the sight of his suddenly six-years-old again daughter.

Allison is quick to assure him that other than the inconvenience of being so small again, she’s really all right, and she’s still got all the proper memories and mental functions. They’re in the middle of a heated discussion about how they’d had an agreement to let Allison be involved in pack matters, which is hilarious because of how small Allison is now, when Derek and Lydia return.

Lydia floats in with a couple of bags hooked over her arms, and Derek follows behind, actively struggling with bags and boxes.

“That was pretty fast,” Stiles says, because he has been shopping with Lydia, and even finding a single dress has never been handled so quickly.

“We weren’t shopping,” Lydia states. “We were buying.”

“I’m not going to ask what the difference is,” Stiles says, peeking into the bags she sets by the couch. They’re full of clothes. He starts pulling them out and holding them up to see what fits on who.

“We didn’t have time for actual shopping,” Lydia says, flipping her hair. “The bare necessities can be purchased without research.”

“You’re really thinking you need to research stuff for a—please God—temporary situation,” Stiles asks, handing off clothes to the kids.

“We don’t know how long this is going to last,” Lydia says, yanking away the clothes Stiles picked out and fishing pajamas out of another bag. “And I’m not about to buy a car seat that’s been recalled but not taken off the shelves yet.”

“Point,” Stiles relents, helping Erica to untangle herself from her shirt. “Can you grab Isaac,” he asks.

“I told you I don’t touch children,” Lydia says.

“Just while I’m—okay, fine, Jesus,” he grumbles, making a face as she smiles while handing him a package of Pull-Ups. After he gets Erica dressed, which involves a lot of trying to keep her fingers out of her mouth, he goes for Isaac. Luckily, the makeshift diaper—aka a dish rag—has held up well enough. Lydia disappears into the kitchen to direct Derek with arranging whatever other supplies they bought, leaving Stiles to deal with Isaac on his own.

He gets him properly diapered and into a onesie with ducks on it—yeah, he totally coos at it, no shame in admitting it—before lifting the still dozing baby up. Stiles actually can’t believe how calm of a baby Isaac has turned out to be. He takes a moment to contemplate on whether or not Isaac is still in there, still mentally working right like the others are. But then, he remembers Erica’s fascination with her fingers, and yeah, maybe not.

He looks around to see the others are all pajama’d out and looking pretty beat. Allison is holding her dad’s hand without any protest, and Scott is yawning and rubbing his eyes. Jackson just looks spaced out. “Okay, so, bedtime,” Stiles suggests.

“I’m not tired,” Jackson immediately protests.

“Yeah, I’ll believe that when you’re not swaying on your feet. Everyone who’s under the age of ten, upstairs,” he orders.

“I’m taking Allison,” Argent says, and Stiles nods. He wasn’t about to protest that.

“Take some clothes,” Lydia calls from the kitchen. Argent stoops to dig through some of the bags, and as he’s pulling out little dresses, there’s a look on his face that Stiles would call a sweet sentimentality if it didn’t vastly shake his understanding of the universe. They’re out the door a moment later, Allison promising to call in the morning over her shoulder.

On the couch, Erica has fallen asleep. It’s a bit of a struggle, but Stiles manages to get her up into his other arm before herding them all up the stairs. He bunks Scott and Jackson together in one room and Erica and Boyd right next door, promising that they’ll workout something better tomorrow over Scott and Jackson’s protests.

He brings Isaac back downstairs with him, because he isn’t sure how old babies are when they start rolling around. And yeah, Isaac has been out like a light since Stiles got to the house, but he really doesn’t want to take any chances. Then again, Stiles thinks looking down at him, Isaac is probably still too small for that.

When he gets down into the kitchen, Lydia is directing Derek to boil a bunch of bottles. She waves Stiles over to where there’s a container of formula. “He’s been sleeping the whole time,” she asks, motioning to Isaac.

“Dead to the world,” Stiles says. He doesn’t bother whispering at all. None of the pack was quiet while Derek and Lydia were shopping, and none of that noise woke Isaac.

Lydia nods. “Well, then he’ll likely be up soon and hungry. I’m guessing he’s two months or so. Still very young.”

“Awesome,” Stiles mutters, picking up the container to see how much formula to mix with how much water.

“I don’t know how much you actually know about children,” Lydia says, and she holds up a child development book.

“Enough to get by as a babysitter,” Stiles says, taking the book. “I’ve got little cousins, but I only really see them at Thanksgiving and Christmas.” Lydia taps the book with a hum. Stiles skims along through the new born and one-month sections and slows down at the two-month, reading for a while until Isaac starts to stir.

Everything is fine for a minute or so. Isaac is awake and squirming a bit, but not overly so. Then, suddenly, he starts to wail and kick. “Oh shit,” Stiles cries, and Lydia makes a face as Derek claps his hands over his ears.

“Shut him up,” Derek hisses.

“He’s just hungry, I’m sure,” Stiles says, bouncing and patting Isaac’s back. “Hand me one of those bottles.” He hurries to get everything made up, shaking to stir the formula while muttering, “It’s coming, man, give me a second.” When he holds the bottle up to Isaac’s mouth, the baby takes it and greedily goes to town.

“Ugh, thank God,” Derek grumbles.

“And that is my cue to head out,” Lydia says, slipping down from the stool and smiling pleasantly at the glares they send her. “Read that book, Stiles. And Derek, right now, go set up the crib. I’ll be back over in the morning.”

And then she’s gone, leaving Derek and Stiles alone with five werewolves all under the age of eight. Perfect.

While Stiles feeds Isaac, Derek drags the largest box up the stairs. Stiles follows to keep him out of the rooms where he settled the others. Derek picks out another room and quickly sets up the crib. He shakes it, and the thing looks like it’ll hold up well enough. Stiles kicks another bag at Derek, one that has a mattress pad and a blanket. When he’s done with the bottle, Stiles lays Isaac down, and the baby blinks up at him for a moment before starting to fuss again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, hurriedly moving to pick him up before those whimpers can turn into full screams again. “You’re not tired yet. I get it, but a man can dream.”

He goes back downstairs where Derek already retreated. “Why isn’t he sleeping,” he asks when Stiles starts digging around drawers to find a clean dishtowel. Isaac probably needs to be burped, and they spit up sometimes when that happens, and Stiles would prefer to not have baby puke down his shirt.

“He’s been passed out for hours. Eating isn’t that exhausting, even for a baby,” Stiles answers.

Derek glowers. “Did Deaton have anything useful?”

“At the moment, no,” Stiles says, propping Isaac up in his lap and patting his back. Derek stares with a baffled expression. “He said he’d go through his stuff, see what he’s got, and let us know. Until then or until we can convince the witches to pretty please let the puppies grow back up, we’re on our own.”

Derek’s expression goes dark, and Stiles adds, “But, hey, since there is that whole on our own thing, you think you could do me a favor and not freaking go hunt down the witches and try to charm them with that not so winning personality of yours? Because I can probably handle a lot of this as long as you’re around here to do other things. But I physically cannot with five of them at once, you know.”

Derek looks like Stiles just asked him to go make some tea out of wolfsbane petals, but he grits out, “Fine.”

After being burped, Isaac is pretty content to sit in Stiles’s lap and just look around and make gurgling noises for a while. Derek finishes unloading everything that isn’t clothes—which mostly just consists of diapers and wipes and another blanket—and bringing them upstairs. When Isaac starts to nod off again, Stiles brings him up and tucks him into the crib.

He heads for one of the remaining spare rooms and plops down on the bed. He thinks longingly of his own room, but Derek will probably actually carry out those old threats about throats and teeth if he tries to leave. So he just fluffs up a pillow under his head and settles in to really get this baby development book read.

``

Stiles wakes up some unknown amount of time later. The book is on his chest, mashed under an arm. There’s a crick in his neck from lying at an odd angle, and the lamp is still on. There’s a funny noise that his sleep-addled brain can’t determine, but it’s annoying like an alarm clock. But most importantly, Derek is shaking his shoulder and growling at him.

“Dude, wha—?”

“How,” Derek hisses, “can you possibly sleep through this noise?”

Stiles shakes his head, still trying to make his brain catch up. “I don’t—huh?”

“Isaac,” Derek growls, and Stiles finally places what the noise is. It’s the muffled sounds of a baby crying.

Stiles stumbles out of the bed, bumping into Derek and earning another growl. “Dude,” he chastises as he makes his way down the hall. “Really, you couldn’t even try to pick him up or something?” The wailing increases drastically as Stiles opens the door and heads for the crib. Isaac’s little face is red, and there are tears pouring from his eyes. Stiles glares at Derek as he picks the baby up, wondering how long he’s been screaming. He kicks and flails as Stiles bounces him a bit. The book had said that late night feedings are still a thing at two months, so he heads back out and down the stairs.

Derek follows. “I have no idea what to do with that,” he says, gesturing at Isaac. “But you do, so you can keep handling it.”

“You know,” Stiles says, fishing out the formula and turning on the water. “There is a certain amount of very basic instinct that goes into this. For example, babies aren’t made of titanium. You can’t just throw them up against walls.” He pauses for a minute. “Yeah, okay, you have issues with that, so maybe it is best you don’t touch him.”

Derek snorts and turns on his heel, heading back upstairs. “No, really, it’s okay. I’ve got it. You go on back to sleep,” Stiles calls after him. Isaac’s wailing is getting louder, so Stiles hurries to shake the formula and give him the bottle. He whimpers pathetically for a couple of seconds before going to town on the thing. Stiles sighs heavily and glances at the clock on the microwave. 2:57 AM blinks back at him. “You’re going to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you,” Stiles grumbles down at the baby, who just blinks big eyes up at him. “It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

``

On a normal day, Stiles isn’t exactly a morning person, but he doesn’t hate the morning sun either. Give him a few minutes and a cup of coffee, and he’s ready to face the day. But not getting to bed until after midnight, only to be woken up at three in the morning and having to entertain a baby for the next hour and a half, only to be woken up yet again by Derek dragging him out of his room and into the makeshift nursery to attend to the crying baby a couple of hours later, well, yeah, he’s not exactly on top of his game when Scott comes into his room and tells him that Isaac is crying again, and he can’t reach the bowls but Jackson is going to climb up to get them.

Stiles is stumbling out of bed, hating the world. He yells over the railings for Jackson to get off the counters as he heads to Isaac’s room. Erica is in there, having climbed up into the crib. She’s patting Isaac’s curls as he cries and saying, “Hush, Isaac, no cry.”

Stiles lifts her out of the crib first and then goes back for Isaac. First things first is a diaper change, and then he hefts the baby up against his shoulder to go handle everyone’s breakfast. Erica is waiting for him at the door, one fist in her mouth and the other held up for him to take a hold of.

The kitchen is kind of a mad house. Jackson is still trying to get up the counter, and Scott is yelling at him that Stiles said not to. Boyd is eating directly out of a box of cereal, spilling bits onto the floor. Erica has let go of his hand and is making a pretty messy attempt to climb up on of the chairs. Stiles hurries to steady it, because it looks like it’s about to topple over, and he totally doesn’t need that, not with Isaac still crying in his ear.

“Are you going to make him stop,” Jackson asks, squirming when Stiles pulls him down from the counter. Scott smirks and sing-songs that “told you so,” and Jackson sticks his tongue out at him.

Stiles heads for the bottles and formula, thinking it would be nice to have this shit premade, but he’s also pretty sure he read that they aren’t supposed to drink cold milk, and it would just go bad if left on the counter. He’s shaking the bottle while Erica complains loudly over Isaac’s screams that she’s hungry now. “Where’s Derek,” Stiles asks.

“Sleeping,” Boyd answers.

Stiles frowns. “Did anyone try to get him to come help get you breakfast?”

“He said you’d do it,” Scott answers, pushing Jackson out of the way to get a handful of dry cereal from Boyd.

“Of course he did,” Stiles grumbles. It takes a lot of impressive balancing and more hand-eye coordination than anyone should have to use at eight in the morning, but he manages to get bowls and spoons and cereal and milk poured for the four kids all while keeping the bottle in Isaac’s mouth. And then Boyd wants juice, so they all want juice, and he gets that poured and on the table in time to lament that Erica doesn’t seem to have the best coordination with silverware yet, because there is milk and cereal all over the place.

Then, of course, she spills her juice and starts to cry, which only serves to upset Isaac, who spits out the bottle and starts to wail. Scott and Jackson throw their hands over their ears and complain, and Boyd, thank Jesus, at least has the decency to try to help mop up the spill while Stiles drags Erica up and out of the chair.

It’s then when Derek storms into the kitchen, wearing only a wifebeater and boxers, both twisted from sleep. His hair is ruffled, and his attempted glare is a little ruined by his sleep heavy eyes. “What the hell is going on down here,” he snaps.

Stiles doesn’t bother explaining. He just walks out with the two youngest, snapping over his shoulder, “Make some coffee.” He brings them upstairs, depositing Isaac into the crib despite very loud protests. He grabs at some wipes and helps Erica out of her wet pajamas. She’s still sobbing as he tries to clean her up. “Come on, Erica, it’s okay. People spill juice all the time.”

Her crying stops, but she’s whimpering and looking at him with too big, wet eyes, and it shouldn’t be cute, but it is. “You’re not angry,” she asks around her fingers.

“No, I’m not angry,” he promises, smiling to show her. “You’ve seen me. I’m a spaz. I spill things all the time.” This makes her giggle. “See? Nothing to cry over. We’ve got enough crying from Isaac over there.”

Those big eyes glance over his shoulder towards the crib. “He’s loud,” she observes.

“You’re telling me,” Stiles agrees. “So, let’s get you dressed again.”

“I have to potty,” Erica says, pulling out from his grip. “I wanna do it myself.”

“Okay, go for it,” he says, and she runs—more like waddles, holy crap that is cute—to the bathroom across the hall. Stiles stands up and goes back for Isaac, bouncing him to try to stop the wails. He was definitely wrong yesterday. Isaac isn’t a calm baby. Oh, sure, if he’s asleep, he seems pretty dead to the world, but when he’s up, yeah, not so much.

He’s digging through the bags to find something for Erica to change into when she yells, “Stiles!” For half a second, his stomach drops, and he really, really hopes she didn’t fall in. But when he gets into the bathroom, she’s standing in front of the toilet, her Pull-Up forgotten in front of the sink. “I can’t reach,” she informs him. It’s a bit awkward, but he manages to get an arm around her to hoist her up onto the toilet and help keep her balanced there.

For a moment he laments how just yesterday he was taking for granted that he had never had to help two members of the pack with going to the bathroom while everyone involved was stark sober. They’re never going to be able to go back to that place of innocence ever again.

It’s another couple of minutes before he gets her dressed and Isaac changed again and back downstairs. Scott heads him off when he tries to make a beeline for the coffee pot, holding up a cellphone. “Allison wants to talk to you,” he says.

Stiles grumbles some choice words under his breath and barks, “What,” into the phone.

“Well, someone’s sure grumpy this morning,” Allison’s little voice comments.

“The things I’ve seen, Allison,” he complains.

“Poor baby,” she hums with mocking sympathy. “I just wanted to tell you, I don’t know when I’ll be able to come over. Someone is refusing to drive me,” she yells this part rather pointedly. Stiles assumes her father is in hearing distance. “Let me tell you how annoying it is to not be able to reach the pedals of your own car.”

And even if Allison is a Mocky McMockerson, Stiles really wishes she was here, because it sounds like she’s handling this all pretty well and isn’t as regressed as the others. He spares a glance at Scott and Jackson, who are fighting over the toy that was in the bottom of the cereal box.

“Would it sway your dad at all to know that there is human suffering taking place here without you,” he asks.

“Doubtful,” Allison chirps. “You’ve made your bed, and all that.” Oh, Stiles cannot wait until this whole mess gets resolved and Scott and Allison grow up and start giving Chris Argent a bunch of werewolf grandbabies. He will laugh. Obnoxiously.

Scott is pulling on the hem of his shirt, begging with big, brown eyes for Stiles to hand the phone back over. Puppy. Scott is actually a puppy, and it is ridiculous. But handing the phone to him means that he can finally get to the coffee pot, and that is what dreams are made of.

It’s around noon that Lydia arrives with orders for Derek to unload the back of her car. She delights in telling Stiles that she’s finished up the shopping, and Stiles stares wide eyed as Derek brings in more crap than Stiles thinks is strictly necessary, but Lydia waves him off. There’s some monster car seat/carrier/stroller combination. “You might need to take him out somewhere, that’s all I’m saying,” Lydia comments. There’s another more permanent looking car seat for Erica and two booster seats for the kindergarten duo. “Already dropped one off with Mr. Argent.” There’s a diaper bag, a high chair, pacifiers, a “tummy time” station, more blankets, toys, baby approved shampoos and lotions, and a potty training toilet—thank Christ.

Derek is once again dismissed to set everything up, and Lydia continues to inform Stiles that she’s already handled Erica’s excuses. “We’re on an extended shopping trip down south,” she says. “Her, me, and Allison. With my mother chaperoning, of course.”

“And Mrs. Reyes just went with that,” Stiles asks, but honestly, he’s not really surprised. Erica’s parents never really seem to give much concern to their daughter outside of her hospital trips. And since the bite and the noticeable lack of epilepsy, they basically pay her no mind. He’s reaching out to bury his free hand in the golden curls of the little girl’s head before he realizes it. She just looks up from where she’s playing with Isaac’s hands and smiles at him.

Lydia catches his reaction, and for a brief second, she lets her mask of indifference slip away for him to see that it upsets her too. But then it’s back up. “And I was thinking for you boys, maybe a lacrosse camp,” she suggests.

Stiles ponders that. There’s no one to contact for Isaac, because they had managed to fudge the records and pretend that Derek was a family friend to the Leheys, so Derek is officially Isaac’s guardian. With Jackson, his parents are so desperate to keep his affections—not that he particularly shows them—that they’ll let him do just about anything he wants with minimal prompting. Boyd, like Erica, is all but ignored by his family. Really, the only concern here is Scott.

“Think you can wing it,” Lydia asks when he brings up the concern.

“She’s not really going to like agreeing to let Scott run off for a few weeks without actually talking to him about it in person,” Stiles says slowly, “but maybe.”

He’s right, as it turns out. Stiles waits until Isaac is down for a nap before calling up Mrs. McCall. He passes on the information about the lacrosse camp, and she complains that Scott forgets to tell her everything and then demands to talk to him. “He’s off with Allison,” Stiles lies, schooling a longsuffering tone into his voice.

That makes her laugh. “How mushy is it,” she asks. “Lots of sad, puppy dog pining looks?” Stiles thinks it’s pretty bad when even Scott’s mom makes fun of the overly sweet and gooey relationship.

“The worst,” Stiles mocks, and from the doorway, Scott is scowling him. “Oh, Allison, what will I do for the next month if I can’t count your eyelashes every day? What will I do if I can’t sit around watching as you digest a milkshake?”

Mrs. McCall lets out a squawk of a laugh. “You’re a terrible friend, Stiles,” she says.

“You laughed,” he counters.

She’s still chuckling when she says, “Get the Jaws of Life and put him on.”

And here is where the acting comes into play. Because there isn’t any way that Stiles could fake it standing in the same room as her or even through a door, but over shoddy cell phone service, Stiles can passably mimic Scott’s voice. And so he mumbles a few sorrys as Mrs. McCall scolds him on his terrible memory, and he tells her that they’re supposed to be leaving in a couple of hours, and she doesn’t like that because she’s on shift. She wants Scott to come down to the hospital to say good-bye to her, and he whines about Allison—Scott’s little face is bunched up like he wants to kick Stiles—and after a minute Mrs. McCall lets out an exasperated but fond sigh, telling him to spend the time with his girlfriend but to please remember to call her some or at least text her while he’s gone.

He ends the call with a sigh of relief—and a slight pang in his chest when Mrs. McCall says, “I love you, honey,” and he has to respond in kind—and Scott pats his knee. For good measure, he has to call up his dad and make mentions of this fake lacrosse camp, just to cover all the bases.

Jackson comes in and demands lunch, which reminds the other three that they’re hungry too. Stiles drags himself into the kitchen behind them to make sandwiches. Lydia follows but doesn’t do much more than recite back orders and correct him when he tries to put mayo on the turkey and swiss rather than the ham and provolone. The kids all pipe that they want juice, and Stiles digs around until he finds the coffee thermoses. “We’re not all babies,” Scott says. “We won’t spill.” Right then he lifts his sandwich and half of it falls out into his lap. Jackson almost tumbles out of his chair he’s laughing so hard.

“Everyone is getting a lid for forever,” Stiles says firmly, pouring out the orange juice and depositing the sealed containers on the table. It’s about that time that he remembers that he’s still wearing the same clothes from yesterday and that they smell vaguely of the juice Erica had spilled that morning. “Man, I need a shower,” he complains, rubbing his face. “And new clothes.”

“There’s a duffle in the front seat of my car,” Lydia says, pulling off the crusts of her sandwich. “And really, when are you going to let me take you shopping? Your fashion sense is just short of appalling.”

“I’m seeing how long I can hold out,” Stiles says, walking out to retrieve what she brought over. “I feel like this is some kind of a record, and I’m going to cherish that.”

“One day I’m just going to drag you to the mall by the balls,” Lydia yells after him.

``

The day passes by slowly and in the blink of an eye all at once. If Stiles isn’t feeding Isaac—or even when he is—he’s also chasing down Erica from her mission to climb everything in the house or to separate Jackson and Scott when they start fighting over a toy or a seat on the couch or what movie to watch, or he’s trying to convince Boyd that a seven year old really doesn’t need to be trying to light up the grill and it doesn’t matter if he still knows how to do it.

Lydia and Derek are next to no help. Lydia won’t touch any of the kids, although she does snap a couple of times for Scott and Jackson to act their mental ages. Derek has disappeared to “run errands.” Stiles is pretty sure he’s just hovering around the animal clinic and glowering and not answering any of Stiles’s increasingly dramatic texts. Because he is a jerk and a sourwolf.

But at least when he comes home that evening, he’s got bags of takeout. The kids make a mess of everything while they eat, and Erica seems to think her position in the high chair is perfectly good reason for her to throw things. Stiles has Isaac propped up over his shoulder and is reaching for the box of sweet and sour chicken, because Holy Christ, he hasn’t eaten all day, but then Isaac hiccups, and Stiles stills at the feeling of something warm and wet dripping down his back.

“Oh, that is disgusting,” Lydia says. Scott and Jackson both make faces.

Stiles just sighs. It’s his own fault, really. He should have burped Isaac before attempting to take a break. Rather than passing Isaac off on someone—like anyone else would hold him—so he can change, he just continues to spoon chicken into a bowl. “Okay, that’s really disgusting,” Lydia says.

Stiles grunts and starts shoveling food into his mouth. He’s too tried to care right now. After he’s gotten enough in his stomach to power him through the next few hours, he goes upstairs to change Isaac. Lydia follows, instructing him to strip out of the soiled shirt. She has a wet cloth that she wipes over his back and then hands him a fresh shirt. “The things I do for you,” she says with untold amounts of suffering.

“You truly are a martyr,” he returns.

Lydia goes home after the kids are all in pajamas. They haven’t switched up the sleeping arrangements, which Scott and Jackson complain about, and Stiles promises that they’ll do something about it tomorrow. He settles down in the living room for about an hour of letting Isaac lay around on his stomach on the play mat Lydia bought. His neck isn’t strong enough to look up at the dangling toys, so Stiles unhooks one and waves it a few inches from his face. The book says that two-month olds still can’t see all that far away yet, but apparently vocal recognition is important. And well, Stiles is good at that, so he babbles at the baby, who might look around for a few brief seconds, but mostly keeps his focus on Stiles.

And that’s—that’s actually pretty cool.

It’s just after eleven when Stiles finally thinks it’s okay to put Isaac down in the crib. He doesn’t bother reading more of the book this time. He just falls onto the bed and immediately passes out.

Unfortunately, he’s woken up exactly the same way as the night before, by Derek shaking him and pushing him out the door and into the nursery to handle Isaac’s crying. It takes a bottle, a change, and forty-five minutes worth of rocking to get Isaac back asleep.

The next morning, Stiles is woken up around seven-thirty by the kids, who, thankfully, aren’t trying to get their own breakfast. Jackson declares that he doesn’t want cereal again, and oatmeal is gross. Scott wants pancakes, and ugh, fine.

He doesn’t think about until after he’s delivering the plates of shortstacks that syrup is going to get everywhere. Boyd is the only one who has a good enough handle on the silverware to cut his own pancakes, even if it is a bit of a sloppy job. Jackson complains that he’s the last one to get his cut, and they’re going to be cold. Derek, passing by half asleep to start up the coffee, growls at him to shut up.

Stiles is interrupted from the weirdly instinctual urge to snap at Derek to be nice to the kid when Isaac’s wailing sounds from upstairs. “Please, for the love of God, make the bottle while I get him,” Stiles begs, and Derek makes a face but at least reaches for the container of formula.

After everyone’s had breakfast and is predictably covered in syrup, Stiles declares that it’s time for baths. Also predictably, Jackson and Scott immediately voice their protests. Isaac is pretty well distracted on his mat trying to keep a plush toy in his grip, so Stiles waves Boyd off towards the downstairs bathroom while he manhandles Scott and Jackson upstairs.

“I don’t wanna take a bath with him. That’s gross,” Scott complains.

“You shower together in the locker rooms,” Stiles says.

“We don’t need your help, that’s perverted,” Jackson grumbles as Stiles helps untangle him from his shirt.

“Trust me, I’m not looking,” he says, filling up the tub and trying not to tense when Scott takes a sort of running leap and dives in. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbles, motioning Erica over to help her in as well.

“Ew, we have to take a bath with her,” Jackson cries.

“You’re five. She’s three,” Stiles sighs. “There is nothing sexual going on here, so can you please, for the love of God, stop saying things like that.”

“It is kind of weird,” Scott says, accidentally letting out a too big gloop of shampoo into the water.

None of them seem to have any inclination to do a decent job of washing their hair. Erica is a wiggling mess, Scott can’t stop looking around, and Jackson just sits there and sulks. He’s finally getting all the suds off them when Derek yells up the stairs, “Stiles, get down here.”

“Kind of busy,” he hollers back.

“Isaac is crying.”

“So pick him up. Not by the neck!”

“I wasn’t going to—can you just come deal with this?”

“If you want to come up here and dry off three naked toddlers,” he snaps back.

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Derek yells, “Just hurry.”

Stiles mutters some very choice words under his breath that make Jackson smirk and Scott try to cover a snorting laugh behind his hands. He hands out towels to the boys, who do a pretty terrible job of drying off, and sends them to their room to get dressed. They run off, leaving puddles in their wake. He holds out a towel for Erica and scoops her up when she makes grabby hands at him. As he’s getting her dressed, he can hear Isaac’s wails over Jackson and Scott arguing about who gets to wear the Superman shirt.

He tells Erica to find her brush and meet him downstairs with the boys before going to rescue Derek. He’s just standing—looming—over the tummy station while Isaac flails and kicks and screams. “Did you even try to pick him up,” Stiles asks, reaching down to scoop the baby up.

“No,” Derek says plainly.

“Touch him? Even a little bit. Just so he knows that you physically exist.”

“He poked him,” Boyd helpfully provides.

Derek spins and glares at him as Stiles frowns. “No, I didn’t,” Derek insists, and Stiles rolls his eyes, because he sounds just as petulant as the kids. He pulls back the onesie to look at the diaper—which, okay, amazing, Lydia found the magical ones that have a stripe that turns blue if it needs changing—and it’s clean, so he just keeps bouncing Isaac and rubbing his back.

“You’re really hopeless at this,” Stiles says, and Derek just looks at him like _duh, idiot_. It’s a few more minutes before Isaac’s wails trail off, and he just starts cooing and knocking his head against Stiles’s shoulder. Erica appears at his side, reaching up to tug at the hem of his shirt and hold her brush out to him.

“Come on then, little girl,” he says, leading her to the couch. He props Isaac up in his lap and directs Erica to stand in front of him while he brushes out the tangles in her curly hair. Like Scott in the tub, she keeps trying to look around the room, which makes it more difficult to not snag her hair.

Scott pops his head over the arm of the couch and asks, “Will you call Allison and see if she’ll come over?”

“Can’t you call Allison,” Stiles asks.

“But you have to ask her dad,” Scott insists.

Stiles sighs. “Maybe you can ask Derek to do it,” he suggests.

Scott makes a face. “Mr. Argent doesn’t like Derek. Not even a little bit.”

Stiles looks over at Derek and tries to convey through the arch of a single brow just how much of the sheer ridiculous bullshit that is all ways falling around his head is just so Derek’s fault. Derek huffs and turns up his nose.

Stiles sighs and holds out a hand for Scott to give him a phone, wondering how this became his life.

``

They don’t get Allison that day, which has Scott pouting with his little puppy dog face, or the next day. It’s six days after the run in with the witches that Chris Argent calls in the middle of the night asking if he can drop Allison off at the Hale house. Stiles is half asleep rocking Isaac, but he’s pretty sure Argent says something about fairies and owing someone a huge favor.

Argent shows up about twenty minutes later and passes off a sleeping Allison into Stiles’s arms, leaving a bag with the clothes Lydia had bought inside the door. Derek had gotten back out of bed after hearing the phone call, and he watches tense from the foot of the stairs until Argent leaves. Stiles is wobbling a little bit, but he makes it up the stairs and decides to just let Allison bunk with him. He’s not about to risk waking up any of the kids and getting them excited to see her. And hell, maybe her being there will keep Derek from growling and pushing him when he comes to wake Stiles up the next time Isaac starts crying.

The next morning, Scott is over the moon and bouncing off the walls at the sight of Allison. “Did you call her dad, Stiles,” he asks, hugging his leg. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” And then he runs up to hug Allison, nuzzling into her neck. “Hi, Allison, I like your pigtails.”

Allison blinks at him, a bit confused, but she hugs him back.

It’s nice having Allison there for that first day. She’s a calming presence for Scott, which leads to him squabbling with Jackson less, and she’s willing to help Stiles as much as she can with Erica and even holding Isaac on the couch for a few minutes so he can eat. But it takes almost no time for her to start regressing too, and then she’s right on the same level as Jackson and Scott.

Which means that Stiles has six kids on his hands with basically no help. Because Lydia won’t touch them, although she has been decent enough to do the laundry and also the dishes that one time. Derek doesn’t seem all that inclined to touch any of them either, which is something that Stiles can’t figure out. Because he’s not exactly a no physical contact sort of person. Stiles has seen—and been involved—with how tactile the pack can be. But Derek is keeping his distance from the kids. And they’ve noticed it.

Stiles thinks it upsets Erica the most, because she’ll actually walk up to Derek and raise up her arms in a silent request to be held. And Derek will just stare down at her with this strange, too guarded look, and after a moment he’ll direct her attention to something else, usually Isaac and therefore Stiles.

They make some brief headway with it one night while watching a movie. The kids—by some miracle—have all agreed on the third _Indiana Jones_ , and are sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV. As soon as the movie starts up, Erica crawls over Stiles, being careful of Isaac and plants herself right in Derek’s lap. Stiles tries really hard to not laugh, because the look on Derek’s face is so priceless. He’s just staring down at her messy curls, eyes wide, jaw tight, and hands clenched in fists on the cushions at his side like he has absolutely no idea what to do with them.

He shoots Stiles a sort of panicked look, but Stiles just shakes his head and turns his attention to the movie. Derek goes back to gaping at the top of Erica’s head.

By the time Harrison Ford and company have made it to the crescent valley, Stiles knows for sure that Allison and Scott are asleep, cuddled up under a blanket. Boyd is doing the jerking head nod thing that says he’s minutes from crashing, and Jackson is on his back, spread eagle—one leg thrown over Boyd’s—with an open mouth. Erica has shifted so that she’s curled in a little ball, her head resting on Derek’s chest.

He still has that look on his face.

Stiles can’t help it. He reaches out and nudges Derek’s side. “Hey, are you really that freaked out by them,” he asks lowly. He spares a second to look down at Isaac, but the baby is dead to the world.

“I’m not,” Derek starts. “I just—I don’t know what to do with them.”

“You know, kids are easier than teenagers, really,” Stiles says. “At least in terms of what they need, and you’ve managed to handle a bunch of teenagers well enough.”

“They’re not—they’re just really small now.”

Stiles tilts his head. “Are you worried you’re going to hurt them? Because, except for Allison, they’re still werewolves. And Allison’s always been able to keep up, so there’s that.”

Derek just makes a face, still staring down at Erica.

“Hey,” Stiles says, nudging him again. “It’s okay. They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Just do your Alpha thing. They still need that.”

``

It’s about two days later that Stiles kind of loses it. He understands, academically, that there are just bad days with kids. There are days where, for whatever reasons, they’re just hyped up and can’t sit still. He totally gets it. He was one of those kids. Hell, he’s still one of those kids. Lydia has legitimately had to go out of town, something about her grandmother, so Stiles is down one pair of hands. So while Derek is in town restocking on groceries, Stiles tries to control six wild kids.

Scott and Jackson are screaming over the DS, Jackson using his inch of superior height to hold it out of Scott’s reach as he runs around the living room. Scott is chasing him with help from Allison, who is throwing anything she can get her hands on. Erica is still in her climbing phase, only she’s figured out how to extract her claws and use them for better leverage. Boyd is only encouraging her. Isaac especially is having a bad day. He’s been crying since he woke up, and no amount of feeding, changing, or rocking has any effect.

Derek gets back and unloads the groceries from his car. At the sight of food, Boyd abandons Erica on the wall and starts asking Stiles about dinner. It takes several too hard tugs to pry her down, and then she’s kicking and squirming in his grasp. Derek gets all the groceries up on the counter before he heads back towards the door, hollering over his shoulder that he’s going to go pester Deaton for answers.

And Stiles just loses it.

“THAT IS IT,” he screams. “EVERYBODY JUST STOP RIGHT WHERE THEY FUCKING ARE.”

The entire room goes still and silent, save for Isaac, whose wails increase even more dramatically. “For the past week and a half, I have been extremely patient. I have taken care of all of you. I have fed you. I have bathed you. I have put you to bed and even read you goddamned bedtime stories. And I have done all of that with a screaming werebaby in my hands, who, by the way, has kept me from having more than four hours of sleep every day since all of this happened. So you know what, I’m done. I’m over it.”

He rounds on Jackson, Scott, and Allison. “You three. I get it. Part of this spell has you all regressing, and being around each other, you’re just feeding off it more and more. I can accept that. But there is no reason why you can’t try to get along and not run around screaming and fighting every second of the day. That stops now, do you hear me?”

Allison’s shoulders hunch, Jackson frowns and turns red, and Scott looks like he’s about to cry. But all three of them nod.

“Boyd,” Stiles continues. “Even taking into account the regressing, you know better than to encourage Erica to climb around on the walls. I don’t care if she’s a werewolf and if she’ll be fine after a fall.” Boyd stares up at him with wide eyes and a sheepish look.

Stiles drops Erica onto the couch and leans down to meet her eyes. “Erica, I need you to be a big girl and behave from now on, okay? No more climbing on things like that. Can you do that for me?” She nods enthusiastically.

Stiles straightens and lets out a sharp breath through his nose before turning to Derek. “And you,” he all but growls. “You’re the Alpha. The pack is your responsibility. And right now, because of what’s happened, that means you have to help me take care of these kids. I won’t ask you to change diapers and stay up for feedings at night or even give them baths. But Jesus, Derek, I need something from you other than being an alarm clock. Help me make some freaking sandwiches. If I ask you to hold Isaac for five minutes, just do it. The worst he’ll do is cry, and you’re not going to hurt him. And the rest of them, God, man, just take them outside and play with them. Hide and seek, tag, I don’t freaking care. It’s really not all that much different from the usual training, right, other than like, don’t throw them into any trees or anything, because, you know, they aren’t even ten yet. Just, please, man, I am begging you. Give me a hand here, because I can’t keep this up.”

He’s hysterical by the end of that rant, which is only serving to upset Isaac more. He rocks back and forth, rubbing his hand over the baby’s back. “Isaac, come on, buddy, please, please stop crying.”

A warm hand falls on the back of his neck, and Stiles looks up to see Derek there. “Go bring Isaac into your room,” he says lowly. “I’ll get them settled.” And he goes up the stairs as Derek leaves instructions with the pack to get it together, that Boyd is in charge, and that he will make them cereal for dinner after they put away groceries, and that they will watch a movie quietly before going to bed at exactly eight-thirty.

Stiles is pacing the length of his room, bouncing and rocking and muttering, when Derek enters. He has a bottle made, and he leaves it on the bedside table. Then he steps up to Stiles, draws in a deep breath—he kind of looks like he’s getting ready to be impaled by someone’s claws—and says, “Hand him here.”

Stiles just stares at him.

Derek’s face twists into one of more familiar annoyance, and he repeats, “Hand me Isaac.” A bit dazed, Stiles does, pushing Derek’s hands to properly support the baby’s head. “Now, take off your shirt,” Derek says.

“Um, what?”

Derek carefully lowers Isaac to the bed and starts fumbling around trying to get him out of the onesie. “Take off your shirt,” he repeats.

“Why?”

“I read the book,” Derek says, struggling with Isaac’s arms. “It said that some babies like skin contact with their parents. And that’s a big deal for wolves. So this might calm him down.”

Stiles blinks. “That’s—that’s actually kind of a good idea.”

“Not all of my ideas are shitty,” Derek deadpans.

“Just most of them,” Stiles says, fumbling out of his shirt and then going to help Derek get the onesie over Isaac’s head. He picks him back up, cradled under his chin. Isaac buries his head in Stiles’s neck and continues to cry, but immediately it’s more pathetic whining than loud wails. “Holy shit,” Stiles says lowly.

Derek hums. “Get in the bed.” Stiles all but collapses back into the pillows, but then he almost flails when Derek—suddenly also sans shirt—climbs in beside him and pulls him right up against his chest.

“Oh, hi, didn’t know you were joining this cuddle fest,” Stiles says.

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Derek says, his stubbled cheek scratching Stiles’s shoulder and one hand lying flat and still on Isaac’s back. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to pass out, but before he does, he can’t help but smile, because Isaac has finally stopped crying.

``

The next morning, Stiles wakes up to something that smells a lot like bacon. He lifts his head and through sleep heavy eyes he sees all the kids standing there with a tray of food. He blinks at them, trying to get his brain to catch up to what’s going on. He sort of half realizes that he’s been mostly passed out cold since seven yesterday evening. He kind of remembers waking up once to feed and change Isaac, but he’s pretty sure he was mostly asleep through it.

“Wha’s goin’ on,” he slurs.

“We made you breakfast,” Allison says sweetly.

“I got you coffee juice,” Erica says proudly, holding up a thermos that must be filled with orange juice—at staple in the house since Lydia said they worked just as well as sippy cups.

“And Derek cleaned the kitchen,” Boyd adds.

“And we’re going to play in the woods today so you can only have to worry about the crying pee machine,” Jackson says.

“So please don’t be mad at us anymore,” Scott finishes up, and the look on his face can only be described as a kicked puppy. Stiles blinks between the kids and the food, and then he looks over to the doorway, where Derek is standing, actually holding Isaac.

How about that?

He rubs a hand over his eyes and sends Scott a tired smile. “I’m not mad, Scott,” he says, and Scott looks so incredibly relieved. He darts around Allison and scrambles up into the bed to bury his head in Stiles’s side. Stiles pulls him better into his lap and hugs him, ruffling his thick hair. “And apologies accepted. Now, hand me some of that bacon.”

``

It gets better after that. He still feels like a zombie half the time, but that’s not exactly unusual in a house with six kids under the age of eight. Those _19 Kids and Counting_ people are all insane. Beyond insane. Humanity hasn’t invented a word for how crazy they are yet.

The biggest relief in all of this is that now that Derek’s manned up and actively spent time with the kids, he’s doing better. He doesn’t look as tense all the time. He smiles. It makes Stiles’s chest feel tight in a really good way, because Derek deserves this. He deserves being happy and not crumbling under the weight of the world on his shoulders. Poor guy’s been through enough. And over the years, Stiles has learned a thing or two about Alphas. Good Alphas thrive on things like this, not necessarily on the nurturing, motherly aspects of it all—that’s the job of the Alpha’s mate, and that’s a line of thought that Stiles always quickly shuts down—but on the being responsible. Good Alphas thrive on seeing a stable, happy, and unified pack.

And sure, the pack is definitely in the middle of a problem, because Deaton still doesn’t have any answers, and Derek’s not really able to go out and track down the witches, but all things considered, it’s going okay. There’s no overabundance of teenaged angst and problems, and Stiles is pretty sure that’s a huge load off for Derek. It’s his own fault for making a pack out of a bunch of teenagers, but Stiles gets how that could probably be annoying after a while.

``

It’s been just shy of two weeks since the pack got de-aged. Today’s been a long day. The kids had all been restless, so Derek had dragged them all out to the woods. He finally brings them back around dinner time, and Stiles tries not to laugh—he does a really poor job—at how much mud and dirt Derek is covered in. There are even a few leaves in his hair.

“Not one word,” he growls, sweeping past Stiles and up the stairs.

Stiles readjusts Isaac on his hip and turns a grin down to the kids. They’re all equally messy, but they’ve all got bright smiles and pink cheeks. “Run him ragged out there,” Stiles asks.

“We played hide and seek,” Scott chirps.

Jackson rolls his eyes. “We learned how to mask our scent to make it harder for someone to track us,” he corrects.

Scott turns a look to him. “It was basically hide and seek, and you’re just mad because you couldn’t find me.”

“Please,” Jackson scoffs.

Stiles snaps his fingers at them. “Hey, hey, what did we say about fighting,” he asks. Both hunch their shoulders and mutter apologies. “All right, well, you’re all messes, so go on back to the big bathroom.”

“Aw, do we have to,” Scott complains.

“I can always just drag you all outside and hose you down,” Stiles suggests and immediately regrets it when the kids all look up at him hopefully. “I’m not hosing you down outside. Bathroom, now. Boyd, you take Erica upstairs.”

In the master bathroom, Stiles gets the water running before instructing the three kindergarteners to strip down. He unfolds a blanket and lays Isaac on his tummy. He grabs at the detachable hose and sprays the kids until the water runs clean. Once everyone is washed and dressed in pajamas, he herds them into the kitchen. Allison gets napkins, Scott lays out placemats, and Jackson collects forks. Boyd is pouring everyone their coffee-juice. Derek, hair still wet, but in a fresh tshirt and jeans, is cutting up chicken and piling vegetables on plates. Erica has climbed into her high chair and is waiting for the little table to be snapped into place.

The whole scene is almost sickeningly domestic. Stiles can’t keep the grin off his face.

Around two that morning, Stiles is awoken in the usual way, by Derek shaking him and pushing him out the door. He goes to feed and rock Isaac, and when he stumbles his way back into his room, he stops. He blinks, but Derek is still lying there.

“What are you doing,” he asks.

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek grumbles.

“No, but what are you doing?”

“Well, I was sleeping.”

“You have a room.”

“Will you please just get in the bed and shut up?”

“Sourwolf,” Stiles mutters, but he climbs in on the other side of the bed. “Can I at least have my pillow back?” Derek growls in response.  

Stiles wakes up the next morning to a solid, warm weight pressed up against his back. And Lydia is standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a questioning eyebrow raised. “Oh, shut up,” Stiles grunts. She smiles and says she’ll make breakfast before spinning away in a flash of perfectly curled hair.

``

After they’ve eaten and Stiles is on his third cup of coffee, Lydia says, “You need out of this house in a really terrible way.”

Stiles just makes a grunting noise and then thinks that yes, he definitely does because that reeks of having spent too much time around Derek.

With a bright smile, Lydia says, “You pack a diaper bag, and I’ll get the stroller.” And she jumps down from her chair and is gone with the click of her heels. And, say what again? He’s still sort of just standing there when Lydia sticks her head back in the kitchen and says, “Stiles. Now. Chop, chop.”

“All right, all right,” he grumbles, looking over his shoulder as he heads out. “Can you handle them all, Erica too?”

Derek doesn’t look entirely pleased—it’s more of a nervousness thing than irritation—but he nods slowly.

And about five minutes later Stiles is snapping Isaac’s carrier into the car seat contraption in the back of Lydia’s car. “So, I’m thinking some light shopping, then lunch, more shopping, some ice cream maybe. I also want to get a pedicure.”

“I thought this was about me getting out of the house,” Stiles says.

“And so you are,” Lydia chirps. He rolls his eyes and heaves a long suffering sigh, but Lydia isn’t perturbed.

All in all, it’s not really a bad morning, and he’s so relieved to be out of the Hale house that he absolutely doesn’t care about Lydia dragging him around Macy’s for two hours. Isaac is pretty well behaved through the whole thing, only fussing a bit right before lunch. They get a few questioning looks, and Stiles belatedly realizes that some of those nosey ladies probably thought that Isaac is his and Lydia’s illegitimate prom night baby or something, and haha, no.

They get lunch and move onto boutiques before Lydia declares it’s pampering time. Stiles is prepared to sit in the front bored out of his mind and rocking the stroller back and forth, but Lydia stares him down until he agrees to get a pedicure right along with her. The fact that there’s a guy in his mid-fifties getting one on the other end of the row of chairs helps the decision along.

Official stance on the matter: pedicures are weird but also awesome. Because Lydia insists on these super long massage ones, and yeah, people touching your feet is creepy, but whatever, because he is stressed as all hell taking care of six kids. He deserves nice things.

“So, Derek sleeping in your bed, that’s interesting,” Lydia says, and Stiles almost spits out a mouthful of water onto the poor lady scrubbing away.

“Really,” he asks.

“Well, what other time can I possibly talk to you about it,” Lydia says. “There isn’t a private inch of that land. People always listening in.”

Isn’t that the truth. “Okay, fine,” he sighs. “What about it?”

Lydia turns an incredulous stare towards him. “Did you really just ask me that,” she asks. “What about it? Stiles. He was sleeping in your bed. Spooning you.”

Stiles really wishes he didn’t blush so easily. “Yeah, he just—I almost never wake up on my own.” He inclines his head towards the stroller next to him where Isaac is passed out.

“It’s a biological thing,” Lydia says in her professor voice. “Women are hardwired to pick up on higher pitched noises while asleep, noises like a baby crying. Men aren’t.”

“The more you know,” Stiles says. “Well, he hears it, and he comes and wakes me up, and I don’t know, Lyds, I guess he was tired enough last night that he said fuck it to dragging himself back down the hall.”

“And the cuddling?”

“That’s not abnormal,” Stiles says. It isn’t, and she damned well knows it. The pack is tactile, and it’s a concept the human members are in on too. They can’t really seem to help it. Derek has briefly mentioned that it was like that in his family before things went to hell, so they all just sort of accept it without much question.

“Maybe not,” Lydia says. “But are you really going to deny to me that your being cuddled up with Derek doesn’t mean something a little more than that?”

Sometimes, Stiles really hates that he’s become friends with Lydia Martin.

They stare each other down, and Stiles is just going to go ahead and be very proud of himself for lasting the full fifteen seconds that he does. Then he huffs and looks away. “What do you want me to say, Lydia? That I’ve got a crush on him? Fine. You’ve seen the guy. How does one not crush on Derek Hale?”

“I’m actually pretty good on that front,” she comments. He offers her a dry stare.

“Anyway,” he drawls. “It’s not like it’s a thing that affects any of the relationships in the pack, you know. It’s not hurting anyone. So the guy is a Greek statue the likes of which even Stephanie Meyer would have trouble coming up with adjectives for? Big deal.”

“You shouldn’t let people know that you’ve read Twilight.”

“It was for science,” he says.

Lydia stares at him for a moment and then says, “I’m going to allow this brief tangent. How? How was it for science?”

“Well, you know how everything with our group is different than the so-called norm,” he asks, careful not to flat out say anything about werewolves. But Lydia nods, so obviously she gets what he’s implying about moons and transformations and all that good stuff. “Well, I figured if we ever run into something else, it might be different too, and that Twilight crap is pretty crazy off, so maybe, in the real world, there’s some grain of truth in there. Not about the sparkling though. That’s just crazy. But the whole them potentially popping up, yeah, that’s our luck. So, research and science.”

Lydia again just stares at him in silence for a moment. Then, her eyes slightly narrowed, she says, “I didn’t need to hear about your sex dreams, Stiles.”

Stiles somehow manages to not kick the lady in the face. She glares up at him and manhandles him back into a proper seating position. Stiles lets her, as he’s too busy gaping at Lydia, who just arches a brow back at him. Okay, the fact that maybe such a sex dream has happened once or twice aside, where did that even come from? Oh, God, can she read minds now? Is that some new crazy power? Or one she’s had all along?

“I can’t read your mind, dumbass,” she says. “You’re just pretty much an open book about certain things.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got my eye on you, missy,” he grumbles.

Lydia rolls her eyes and says, “So back to this monster crush you have on Derek. What is stopping you from letting the entire world know about it like you did when you were fawning over me?”

How nice that they can talk about his six years’ worth of pinning so openly and casually. “It’s different.”

“Are you ashamed of it, because he’s a guy,” she asks, but her tone says she’s asking just on principle. She doesn’t expect an answer that’s going to make her angry.

“No, you know I don’t care about that,” Stiles says, and she nods in approval. “It’s just—he’s Derek Hale, you know. He’s like all—“ He flails his hands in a way that someone who knows him well can properly interpret.

Lydia nods. “He’s abrasive and emotionally constipated, I know. He’s damaged, and you’re not sure how to deal with that. Not that you don’t want to, just that you don’t know how to go about it,” she says.

Damn, she’s good.

Lydia sits back in the seat, a thoughtful look settling onto her features. Stiles knows better than to say anything while she’s thinking. That’s a pretty solid way to get punched in the nose.

“The gentle approach here would be to say that he simply needs time to heal,” Lydia says. “He’s already doing much better than when all this started. He’s almost socially acceptable.” Stiles snorts, and Lydia smiles a little. “You should know, though, that you’re no small part of that.”

“Um, what?”

She gives him a look that just screams “Oh, honey,” and says, “You, Stiles. You help Derek feel like things are going to be okay for him again.”

“Explain.”

“Derek might have set everything in motion, but you are what brings everyone back and holds everything together. Imagine the current situation if you weren’t here.” Stiles winces. “Exactly,” Lydia continues. “It would probably have all ended in some kind of ritual murder-suicide after about two hours. But even when everything is normal, you’re the one who takes care of everything. You’re pretty much the pack mom, and you know what that entails.”

Stiles stares at her. “What exactly are you trying to say here?”

“Oh, you are purposefully being obtuse,” she cries. “Derek is in love with you.”

And that notion is so ridiculous that Stiles doesn’t flail. He can’t even move. He just sits there and stares at Lydia, who looks like she’s ready to pull his ear until he loudly admits that she’s right about everything. Then she sighs and reaches out to take his hand. “Stiles, honey, are you really telling me that you have never noticed the way he looks at you?”

Stiles blinks. “Looks at—he doesn’t—Lydia, that’s—“

She offers him a sympathetic look and squeezes his hand. “He tries not to be so obvious about it, but lately, how have you not noticed? He looks like he’s going to melt when he sees you holding Isaac or herding the other kids around.”

“I—I don’t—“ He shakes his head. No way. Just, no way. Not that he’s really got much time to be noticing these sorts of things when he’s running around trying to make sure that six kids are all fed and clothed and bathed and not ripping into each other with tiny claws and fangs—sticks or pencils, in Allison’s case. He doesn’t have time to notice what Derek’s facial expressions are doing. Lydia does though. And Lydia, she wouldn’t lie to him about this. There’s no reason to. She’s certainly not the type to give anyone any sort of false hope, least of all her friends.

Her hand slides up his arm to rest on his shoulder. “Maybe take a few minutes to absorb that,” she suggests. “But, honey, this is a good thing. Something we can work with. It’ll all be right in the end.”

That definitely has a scheming undertone to it, but Stiles is still trying to imagine the way Derek’s eyebrows might be tilting when he gets these so-called looks.

``

He doesn’t actually see Derek making that look at him until a couple of days later. It’s a bit of a haggard morning. Isaac is fussing, the boys can’t make up their minds what they want for breakfast, and Allison is tugging on the hem of Stiles’s sleeve trying to get him to call her dad for her because she can’t wait until their daily afternoon chats to tell him about the butterfly she saw on her window when she woke up.

It feels like being in a mild hurricane, but they get everyone settled in, and as Allison is yapping away, Stiles finally turns to look for the container of formula. Derek is holding it but not about to hand it over. He’s just sort of standing there staring at Stiles. But not even at his face. Stiles blinks and then looks down. Isaac is still fussing a bit, but now mostly out of frustration because he’s trying to suck at Stiles’s shirt and nothing is coming out.

“Wow, buddy,” Stiles says, shifting Isaac to lie against his shoulder and grimacing at the wet spot on his shirt. “Sorry, that store’s never going to be open for business.” He looks back up at Derek, whose gaze has shifted up to meet Stiles’s and holy crap.

Stiles doesn’t even know how to describe the look on his face, but he really, really wants to take a picture and just keep it forever. Because it’s open and relaxed and almost happy, and Derek never lets himself feel that way, and just holy crap.

Their gaze is broken a moment later by Isaac letting out a loud and irritated squawk. Stiles jumps a bit, and Derek shakes his head briefly before handing over the formula container and then bringing Erica her plate of toast and fruit.

He doesn’t need to hear Scott asking him around a mouthful of Pop Tarts if he’s okay to know that his heart is hammering wildly in his chest. He just hurries and pats Scott on the head and gets Isaac his bottle.

``

That night, after Stiles has already woken up to deal with Isaac—Derek is still staying in his bed, and his methods now for waking Stiles up just involve kicking at him until Stiles rolls out of the bed—he’s jerked out of sleep again by the sound of the door opening. He almost jumps up, but Derek’s arm wrapped around his waist keeps him in place.

“What is—“ he starts to ask, but Derek cuts him off to answer, “Erica.”

Stiles lifts up his head. The moon is just about half full, so there’s enough light streaming in the window for him to see Erica’s little face peeking over the foot of the bed. “What is it, Erica,” Derek asks a bit gruffly. Stiles elbows him, and Derek tugs his shirt in response.

“I had a bad dream,” Erica says in a tiny voice. “Can I sleep with you?”

Derek doesn’t answer immediately. Stiles can feel him go a bit tense. He’s getting much better at dealing with the kids, but this is still something out of his league. But it’s an easy fix, so Stiles says, “Sure thing, kiddo.”

Erica quickly climbs up and all but scrambles to wiggle herself right in between them. She snuggles under the blanket and then turns to cuddle up into the curve of Derek’s side. Around a yawn, she says, “Night-night, Daddy Derek.”

And Stiles has never wanted super-werewolf senses as badly as he does in this moment. Because he so desperately wants to see everything of Derek’s expression right now. But all he can really see in the moonlight is the tense lines of his body and hear the slightly too shallow and too hard breathing.

Stiles rolls onto his side to face them, and maybe he’s a little crazy, but he doesn’t hesitate to reach over Erica and rest his hand on Derek’s chest right over his heart. It’s thudding wildly, and Stiles’s own might pick up its pace a little bit when Derek’s hand comes up to grasp his.

``

Erica’s little nighttime adventure sort of opens the floodgates in a lot of ways. She tells all her packmates that she got to sleep in the big room with Daddy Derek and Daddy Stiles—yeah, okay, the way his heart jumps on that, Stiles totally gets how Derek felt—and when they notice that she hasn’t been told to not call them that, it’s just about all the kids can call them now. Allison holds off the longest, but by the time Lydia arrives with lunch, she’s in on it too.

Lydia arches a brow at them, but they really don’t have any response.

Erica assumes that her previous night’s invitation extends on into forever, so she toddles off to their room—hmm, butterflies at that thought—when it’s bedtime. “It’s easier to let her than to try to convince her not,” Derek eventually grumbles, and Stiles passes him a book to read to her while he handles the others.

Later that night, Stiles doesn’t wake up to the door opening but to something pulling at his arm. He snorts as he jerks awake, and reflected in the moonlight about two inches from his face are Scott’s big, brown eyes. And oh, shit, they’re filling up with tears. “Hey, buddy, what’s the matter,” he asks quietly. It’s enough to wake up Derek but thankfully Erica stays asleep.

“I miss my mom,” Scott sniffs. “I want to call her.”

Stiles’s chest feels tight. He reaches out and runs a hand through Scott’s hair. “You know why you can’t,” he says gently.

“I know,” Scott says, rubbing at his eye. “I still miss her.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says.

“Can I sleep in here,” Scott asks, and Stiles responds by scooping him up under his arms and pulling him up into the bed. Scott immediately curls into Stiles’s space, wrapping his arms around his neck and burying his face there. There are a couple of wet sniffing sounds, but he falls asleep again quickly with Stiles rubbing his back under his shirt.

“He okay,” Derek asks lowly.

“He’ll be fine,” Stiles says.

They get one more visitor that night in the form of Jackson, who assures them that he was so totally not scared being in his and Scott’s room all by himself. Scott teases him on the way down to breakfast, and Jackson, his face red, complains that Scott started it.

After that they always end up with at least two of the kids in the bed with them. Boyd holds out the longest. “Everybody else was doing it,” he says in the morning when they wake up to find him cuddled between Scott and Jackson.

``

Stiles learns that a werewolf with a cold is like a tiny little furnace. He’s not ashamed to admit that he kind of really freaks out when he goes to pick up Isaac in the morning, and the fussing baby is much warmer than usual. Just about nothing, not even the skin to skin contact thing, is working to soothe him, and it’s made all the more difficult by Erica crying about how she feels achy around her leaking and coughing. Her crying is only soothed a bit when Derek picks her up and rocks her.

As soon as Lydia gets there, they abandon her with the others and get the youngest two into the car and drive down to Deaton’s.

“Just simple colds,” Deaton assures them after he’s checked the kids over. “Nothing to worry about.”

“You’re sure it’s not something worse,” Derek demands with a growl, taking Erica back into his arms. She wasn’t pleased at all to be inspected by the vet, and had only allowed it in the first place when Deaton had—through magic, Stiles assumes—produced a grape sucker out of nowhere. “Like something from the witches’ spell?”

“All of the other kids are fine,” Deaton asks, and when they nod, he says, “It’s just a cold. Relax. It’s normal for first time parents to get overly worked up about things like this.” Derek growls again, but Stiles laughs a bit sheepishly.

“Confession,” he says. “I was kind of thinking that werewolfing meant not getting sick anymore.”

“For the most part,” Deaton answers. “At least with little things like colds or sinus infections. But these two are still so young, that hasn’t really stabilized yet.”

“Gotchya,” Stiles says with a click of his tongue. “Okay, so what do we do with them?”

“Just about what you’d do for yourself,” Deaton says. “Rest, liquids, and rough it, to some extent. And I can write you up a prescription for a couple of things.”

“You’re a vet,” Stiles says.

“Do you want the good stuff or not,” Deaton asks.

“Proceed,” Stiles says with an apologetic wave of his hands.

They pull into the parking lot of a CVS a few minutes later. Derek is just going to run in, but Erica wants to go too. She’s a bit teary eyed, and Stiles kind of figures she’s still really put out about being sick and having to go to a doctor. And she’s never liked hospital settings. So Derek fishes her out of the backseat, and before he can shut the door, she chirps that she wants Stiles to come in too.

“Baby girl, he needs to stay in the car with Isaac,” Derek says.

“Isaac can come too,” Erica says. “He’s got the baby briefcase.” Stiles bites down on his bottom lip to keep from laughing. Erica’s labels for things are just about the funniest and cutest things in the world. She’d named the combination carrier/car seat/stroller as Isaac’s “baby briefcase” after Stiles’s day out with Lydia, beings as that was the first time it all actually came out of the box for them to see it.

So all four of them unload into the store. Thankfully Isaac has passed out, so they aren’t annoying any customers with the crying baby. The line to the pharmacy is a bit long, but they’re here because this isn’t where Stiles normally fills his prescriptions, so it’s less likely that it’ll ever get back to his dad that he was here with Derek Hale and two toddlers.

Or at least, that’s what he had hoped up until the point that he glances across towards the toiletries and sees Danny browsing deodorants. He goes with his natural instinct, which is to flail in the most noticeable fashion possible and almost trip over Isaac’s carrier in his haste to jump behind Derek and use his massive girth to hide.

Erica, still perched in Derek’s arms, giggles, and Derek pulls him upright just in time for Stiles to properly cringe as Danny calls, “Stiles?”

Well, fuck.

He spins to face his classmate a little too dramatically. “Danny, hi,” he says cheerfully as the other comes up with a confused look. “Yeah, I have no explanation for this.”

“Smooth,” Derek comments dryly.

“So that’s really just a way to say that I shouldn’t ask,” Danny says, the makings of an amused smile starting to stretch his lips.

“That would be very helpful,” Stiles answers.

The smile fully forms. “Except I really want to ask,” Danny says.

“Please spare me,” Stiles says. “I feel like it’ll just get awkward and embarrassing for everyone if I try to come up with something here.”

“Just an FYI,” Danny says, “this is a situation that would have made a lot more sense to say cousins.” He motions to the kids before offering an arched brow at Derek, who just rolls his eyes.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Stiles says.

“So while you’re actually around, what’s been up with everyone lately,” Danny asks.

Stiles fidgets a bit and asks, “Um, what?”

“It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen anyone in your usual group, excluding Lydia at the grocery store last week. She was buying enough to feed a small country, but apparently for no reason. And Jackson is supposedly at some mandatory lacrosse camp that no one else on the team has heard about.”

Double fuck.

“Know anything about that,” Danny asks.

“More than I’m comfortable with most days,” Stiles sighs. Derek turns a sharp look to him, but Danny just looks like he always does when Stiles says something like that, if a little more contemplative.

In fact, Danny kind of looks like he’s having some sort of mini internal debate. Finally he sighs and says, “Does this have anything to do with the whole—“ He waves his hands sort of in an I-can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-actually-say-this fashion. “—wolf pack thing?”

Stiles and Derek both freeze and just stare at Danny, who stares back expectantly.

It’s a long moment before a sharp voice cuts in with, “Hey, you two with the kids? You’re up.”

“You got this, big guy,” Stiles says with a clap on Derek’s back, and he tries to jump up to the counter, but Derek catches him by the back of his collar.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Derek says. “If he knows anything, it’s because you kids can’t keep your mouths shut. Deal with it.” And he goes to collect their meds.

Stiles glances back at Danny, who is still standing there just waiting patiently. He holds up his hands in a placating manner and jumps into Derek’s space. “You actually want me to tell him,” he hisses.

“Sounds like he knows.”

“Yeah, maybe, but tell him?”

“He’s been useful in the past,” Derek says. “And it’ll probably be handy to have him around again. You think he’s trustworthy?”

“Well, yeah, sure, it’s Danny,” Stiles says. Because, come on.

Derek glances over at him, and Stiles’s heart picks up a little bit at the look on his face. It’s not quite the one when Stiles is holding the kids, but it’s something a lot like it. “I’ll trust you on this,” Derek says, right as he adjusts Erica on his hip, and even though Derek saying that he trusts Stiles is a huge, huge deal, everything unspoken with that is so much bigger. He’s not just trusting Stiles to not be a shitty human being and leave Derek to drown in a pool or something. He’s trusting Stiles with the safety of the pack—his family. He’s never given anyone permission to tell this secret to anyone before, not even to parents.

It’s beyond a huge deal.

Stiles brings up a hand to squeeze Derek’s arm briefly before turning back to Danny. “It might be easier if you start off telling me what you know,” he says, hoisting up Isaac’s carrier and motioning with his head to the front of the store.

“Probably most of it,” Danny says, abandoning his would-be purchases on a shelf. “You guys aren’t exactly quiet or subtle.”

``

Danny elects to follow them back out to the Hale house, and even though he’s warned what’s happened to most of the pack, it’s still a shock for him to actually see all of them. The kids, on the other hand, don’t question the new arrival at all. In fact, Jackson treats it like a favorite uncle has just made a surprise visit.

By the end of the day, Stiles is only relieved that Danny is finally in the know. Because Isaac, once he wakes up again, is crying for pretty much the rest of the day, and Erica is miserable and fussing unless Derek is carrying her, so Danny keeping the other kids entertained is nothing short of a gift directly from God’s own hands.

``

Danny continues to be a God send for the next two days while the youngest two kids get through their colds, and Stiles is practically singing praises when none of the others manage to catch the little bug.

“You’ve really been taking care of all of them pretty much solo for two weeks,” Danny asks after they’ve all been put to bed. Stiles, having just thrown himself in between Danny and Derek on the couch, lifts his head just enough to spare a glare between Derek and Lydia.

“Yes,” he answers plainly.

“I did laundry,” Lydia retorts. “And bought everything, and I took you to get a pedicure.”

Derek makes a face, but Danny says, “Amazing, aren’t they? You know, once you get past the weirdness of people touching your feet.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says, turning a pointed look to Derek as he gestures wildly at Danny. Derek rolls his eyes so hard it moves his entire upper body, and Stiles huffs at him, waving at him dismissively. “Thank you, Danny,” he repeats. “Thank you for existing.” Danny chuckles and accepts the fist bump.

``

Like Lydia, Danny starts coming around often, spending most of the day at the Hale house and usually leaving after the kids have gone down for bed. It’s the most amazing thing. Stiles has someone else around who will actually touch the kids and isn’t scared that he’s going to break them or ruin them. And they all love Danny. Of course they do. Everyone loves Danny.

The only downside to Danny being around is that Derek takes it as leave to go and harass Deaton about finding out how to change his pack back to normal. And Stiles would protest Derek abandoning them again, but he finally has a moment to actually look at a calendar and realizes that it’s only another week before his dad gets back in town.

And that poses a very big problem. The lacrosse camp excuse isn’t going to hold much longer, and there’s no way that Stiles can go home when Scott is still a kindergartener. That’s bound to be a bit of gossip passed between his dad and Scott’s mom.

And even if they could keep making excuses as to why Stiles is home but Scott isn’t, well, Stiles wishes he could say otherwise, and Derek has improved since this whole thing started, but Stiles really doesn’t trust him alone with all the kids overnight. Someone will die. Probably Derek.

But he is getting better at it every day. The kids are all pretty naturally attached to him, what with his being their Alpha and all, but Stiles is proud when Derek does things that actually earn that love, like playing outside, helping with baths, letting the kids climb all over him. Stiles manages to snap a few good pictures on his phone, which he has every intention of printing and putting into frames to display at the house. The walls and tabletops are still far too bare.

``

They’re two days from Stiles’s dad getting back home—aka DEFCON 3—and he and Lydia and Danny are basically scrambling to figure out what to do about the kids. Chris Argent is still at least a week from finishing his hunt, which is apparently taking much longer than anticipated. Stiles manages to learn some new interesting swear words around Argent’s muttered complaints about how annoying fairies are.

It’s getting to the point where they’re seriously contemplating just telling his dad and Scott’s mom. Because they don’t really have to worry about anyone else’s parents, and really, it’s becoming more of a hassle than it’s worth to keep this secret. And Stiles really does hate all the lying.

Derek comes back from Deaton’s a little earlier than usual with news that they might have a lead on the witches. They’re a bit surprised Derek didn’t go along, but he grumbles that apparently the presence of a werewolf would just piss the witches off, so Deaton sent him home.

They don’t hear back from Deaton that night, and all the next day, Stiles is bouncing around and muttering about “we are at threat level red” because his dad is coming home tomorrow, and that makes it DEFCON 2. If they get to DEFCON 1—aka holy-shit-it’s-only-like-two-more-hours-we-need-a-plan-like-three-weeks-ago-why-is-this-my-life—he’s probably going to have a stress induced heart attack.

Danny hands him a shot of whiskey and tells him to go take care of Isaac and Erica’s bath while he and Lydia finish cooking. “Drinking and handling babies around water seems like it would be something that doesn’t mix,” Lydia comments.

“It’s just one shot to calm him down,” Danny says. “My uncle does it all the time to deal with his kids.”

Lydia hums. “I’ve met your cousins. They’re interesting.”

“I would have said demons from hell, but that’s nice too.”

They’ve got a little half tub that keeps Isaac propped up in water, and Erica requests extra bubbles in exchange for helping him wash Isaac’s hair. She mostly just pats at his head, occasionally twisting the curls up to make him either a unicorn or a triceratops.

Stiles has them washed up and is reaching for a towel when something weird happens. The kids are growing. Growing really fast. Limbs stretch out, baby fat disappears, and suddenly he’s kneeling at the side of the tub with two fully grown—or as fully grown as they were a month ago—werewolves inside.

Two fully grown naked werewolves.

Awkward.

They just sort of stare at each other for a few moments, Erica slowly moving bubbles to preserve modesty that she really doesn’t have anymore. Finally Isaac says, “So. I have questions.”

From downstairs, Derek bellows, “STILES, GET DOWN HERE!”

“KIND OF BUSY,” he yells back.

“MINE’S MORE IMPORTANT!”

“I’M GOING TO GO OUT ON A LIMB AND GUESS IT’S ABOUT THE SAME!”

“So, are you just going to yell at each other from across the house, or can we get some towels or something,” Isaac asks.

The three head downstairs, Isaac and Erica still soaked but at least wrapped up in towels, to find that the other kids have shot up as well. Danny is handing off extra clothes to replace the ones that no longer fit them. Once everyone is properly covered, Jackson asks, “Okay, so what the hell happened?”

Scott’s phone rings, and he scrambles to answer it and set it to speaker. “Dr. Deaton, what’s going on?”

“ _Ah, sounds like you’re back to normal, Scott_ ,” the vet says cheerfully.

“What did you do,” Derek asks.

 _“I handled it, just like I said,”_ Deaton responds.

“What happened,” Stiles asks. “We’ve been freaking out.”

 _“It wasn’t any trouble, once I actually tracked them down,”_ Deaton says pleasantly. _“The head witch of the coven and I, we used to date in college. She did me a favor and reversed the spell.”_

The pack falls silent and exchanges deadpanned expressions. “You have got to be shitting me,” Allison says.

 _“It pays to stay friendly with your ex,”_ Deaton says. _“Especially when she’s a powerful witch.”_

“Our lives, ladies and gentlemen,” Stiles grumbles.

``

“That was a nightmare,” Derek says a couple of hours later. After basically invading either his closet or the stash of clothes Lydia’s been bringing over for Stiles, the pack, finally properly dressed and covered, had gathered up all of the baby and toddler stuff, storing it in various cars to be taken down to the Good Will. Then they’d all but rushed to their respective homes. Sure, some of them—Boyd and Erica—had neglectful families who probably hadn’t paid much attention to their absence, but still, a month is a long time to be gone.

“Says the guy who didn’t have to get up at all hours of the night to feed a werebaby,” Stiles retorts. Derek just shrugs unapologetically. Stiles rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t really all that bad, you know,” he says. “Sure, the lack of sleep sucked, and the kids climbing the walls would have been something better avoided, but really, think about it, man. Six kids. All under the age of eight. We kept them alive and fed and clothed and happy for a month.”

“Hooray,” Derek says in a deadpan. “We didn’t kill them through neglect or sitting on them.”

“Really hope that isn’t a usual concern with werewolves,” Stiles says, and the deadpan turns to something closer to a glare—or Derek’s usual face, whatever.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “is that we handled it. So we know that when our time comes for real to have kids, we’ve totally got this.”

He hears it as soon as it comes out of his mouth what that actually sounded like. He freezes up, just sort of staring at Derek and wishing the floor was still unstable from the fire so that he could just crash through it and fall into the basement and hopefully break his neck on impact so that it would all be over quickly.

For his part, Derek is looking back at him, his eyes wide and brows doing some weird sort of twitching thing, like he can’t decide exactly what he wants to do with them. He caught it too, what Stiles had said. He heard the implication there.

We.

Our.

 And he hadn’t meant it like that. He really hadn’t. But he stands there thinking about it, and it just sounds like a really awesome idea. Not that Stiles is ready to jump on that right now. He’s not even sure he really could handle an actual thing with Derek right now, let alone their own set of werepuppies.

And he really needs to stop thinking that, because his stomach is going crazy with the good kind of butterflies.

And the whole while, Derek is just standing there and watching him, and it’s that same expression Lydia was talking about, that one he’s now seen a few times that Derek got when Stiles was doing something with the kids, that one where he looks a little more relaxed and a little bit happier.

Derek makes a small move, a tiny shuffle of a step forward, and Stiles kind of feels like his heart might actually jump out of his chest like in old Tex Avery cartoons, but the moment is broken when Isaac wanders into the living room with a pretty much pathetic whine of, “Stiles, I’m hungry. When’s dinner?”

The reaction is automatic. Stiles hurries off for the kitchen and starts making up a bottle. He only realizes what he’s doing when Derek actually laughs at him. “Hm, yeah,” Isaac says. “Maybe not a bottle. But I’m old enough for coffee juice now, right?” 


End file.
